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끝이 있긴 할까 이 미로가?

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Yoongi knows before his eyes even open that it’s not going to be a good day. His body feels so heavy, like the weight of the world is strapped to his limbs—the weight of his world, at least, which more often than not feels like it’s about to crush him at any moment—but more than that, his entire being feels heavy, weighed down by some nameless fatigue.

Scratch that. This weariness has a name, one that Yoongi is intimately acquainted with, a name that gives Yoongi the unwanted rights to the pill bottle on the nightstand.

Unlike Taehyung, who is, according to the company, a “flight risk”—which is not only offensive but incredibly ignorant, and makes Yoongi wonder if they even know the definition of the word “depression”—Yoongi is allowed to self-administer his medication, but that doesn’t make him any more keen on taking the little yellow tablets, even if he doesn’t have to deal with the hellish side effects Taehyung does.

Yoongi glares weakly at the pill bottle, but can’t find it in him to take any sort of action towards it, especially not climb down the bunk bed to get to it.

The bedroom door cracks open, but Yoongi doesn’t really feel like moving his head, either, and so he waits for the muffled footfalls—Yoongi knows it’s Jimin, because Yoongi takes note of things like that—to draw closer.

“Good morning, Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin’s voice is far too fucking cheerful and Yoongi manages to summon the energy to groan in annoyance, “it’s time to get up! Jin-hyung made breakfast this morning, and…”

Jimin’s voice trails off as he notices the way Yoongi’s contemptuously glaring at the pill bottle on the nightstand. “Hey,” Jimin chuckles, picking up the offending object, “what’d this thing ever do to you, huh?”

“I’m gonna kill it,” Yoongi grumbles, avoiding the use of any muscles aside those needed to speak, “I’m gonna flush it down the toilet. Or throw it off the roof. Or run it over. I’m gonna—”

“Hyung,” Jimin sighs, but his voice is too soft, too gentle, and Yoongi hates that voice because it means that Jimin knows—“are you having a rough morning?”

A rough morning. As if he was only reluctant to leave bed, instead of trapped there by some invisible force of crushing apathy.

“Yes,” Yoongi groans, shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the look on Jimin’s face, “just—I’m fine. I can handle today.”

He’s never sure who he’s trying to convince when he says that.




Min Yoongi doesn’t have “good days.” His days fluctuate along a spectrum of functional capability, ranging from “I’m fatigued and grumpy but I’ll be fine after about four cups of coffee,” to “I only have enough energy for breathing right now; please just let me go back to sleep and forget that I exist.”

Yoongi’s bad days aren’t like Taehyung’s; there will be no cancelled schedules because of him, no special accommodations. The managers will give him some sympathetic smiles, maybe a pat on the back, but there’s not much more they can offer him.

It’s fine. Yoongi doesn’t need what Taehyung needs. Yoongi can manage, can survive.

Yoongi’s good at surviving, even when he doesn’t want to.

Besides, half the time he worries anyway that he’s just making it all up, that maybe if he’d just get some more sleep, or try harder, then he’d—“You and I both know it doesn’t work like that, Yoongi,” Seokjin murmurs, his foxlike eyes concerned and empathetic, “Cut yourself some slack. This is something you can’t control; you don’t have to second-guess yourself all the time.” “I can’t help it,” Yoongi mutters, frustrated, and Seokjin sighs sadly. “I know you can’t.”

He has Bangtan, at least, and for that Yoongi’s endlessly grateful. Jimin, especially, is a certifiable angel in Yoongi’s eyes.

(“Oh, hyung,” he hears Jimin whisper sadly, feels Jimin’s hands brushing his bangs back before a soft kiss lands on his forehead. If this was a better day—a day when Yoongi had the energy to feel emotions—he might cry at the beauty that is Jimin, the wonderful, amazing kindness and selflessness that is Park Jimin; but it’s not a good day, and Yoongi can only feel numb.

He lets Jimin manhandle him into a sitting position, stays slouched there as Jimin practically dresses him.

Yoongi feels so useless, and empty.

“Come on, hyung,” Jimin’s voice is like a lighthouse beacon, and Yoongi is a sailor who’s already drowned, but the feeling of Jimin’s fingers intertwining with his gives him enough strength to stand on his own, to blankly follow Jimin out of the bedroom, into the world Yoongi would rather ignore.)




Hoseok used to get jealous and over-protective, Yoongi remembers, when Jimin took care of Yoongi the way he does, but that has long since stopped being an issue.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Hoseok starts, and Yoongi snorts (because since when is that a good method of starting a conversation?), “but do you ever worry? That, like, the depression—”

Always the depression, not your depression. It’s not Yoongi’s; he never wanted it, he still doesn’t—

“—that it makes you not feel attracted to people?”

Does Yoongi ever worry that the depression is the root of his asexuality? Yes, of course, Yoongi worries all the time, there’s nothing Yoongi doesn’t worry about—

“Sometimes,” he replies, half-truthfully, “but it doesn’t really matter to me. It doesn’t…it doesn’t make a difference. I’m asexual, and it doesn’t matter why; it’s still my identity.”

Hoseok hums, nodding.

(Does Yoongi sometimes wonder what his life would be like without the depression?

Yes, of course. But it’s fruitless, because Yoongi will never not be depressed—or at least it feels that way—and thinking otherwise will only make him sad.

And Yoongi doesn’t need any help in that department, thank you very much.)




He should be more put off by Taehyung than he is, Yoongi muses.

When he’s feeling lousy Yoongi likes to be left alone, in the dark, in silence, to mope and sleep. He doesn’t want to be bothered, and Taehyung excels at bothering people.

(Yoongi will give him a pass, though, because most of the time the poor kid doesn’t know that he’s being annoying.)

Still, strangely enough, Yoongi enjoys Taehyung’s company, even on more difficult days.

“Hyung,” Taehyung whispers—it’s still too loud, but Yoongi will let it go—“I watched the best episode of Inuyasha today, you won’t believe—”

Taehyung’s endless babbling is nice, Yoongi admits to himself, letting his mind be lulled by the cheerful tone of Taehyung’s words. It’s relaxing to let himself drift in the sea of talk Taehyung creates, taking up space that Yoongi doesn’t have to try to fill and crowding out the bad thoughts.

Plus, Taehyung is a cuddler.

And even if he is supposed to be the aloof Min Suga, Yoongi still enjoys being cuddled, thank you very much.




Yoongi always forgets that he’s not supposed to drink—that’s a lie, he knows he’s not supposed to, but fuck it if he’s going to abide by that—because it messes with his meds and makes him all loose and too relaxed, riding a chemical high caused by alcohol that intensifies the effects of his medication.

It makes him crash, makes him feel even worse, but in the moment, Yoongi never cares. Drinking lets him be numb in the good way, lets him be happy, and damn if anyone’s going to take that from him.

Especially not this douche who thinks he’s smart, who thinks he knows shit

Hyung!” Namjoon roars, and Yoongi feels a hand on the back of his shirt, yanking him away from this guy he’s got laid out across the bar, blood streaming from his nose and onto Yoongi’s knuckles.

Namjoon hauls him outside, furious.

“Hyung, what the hell?” He releases Yoongi’s collar long enough for the older boy to regain his already unsteady footing, “What were you thinking? You could’ve gotten hurt, could’ve gotten arrested—”

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi rasps, not meeting Namjoon’s eyes, and the leader runs a hand over his face, knowing they’ll have to discuss this later, and not when Yoongi’s in such a precarious emotional position.

“Let’s just…let’s just get home, okay?” Yoongi nods and lets Namjoon slip an arm under his shoulders, supporting him as they stumble down to the street to hail a taxi.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi slurs again, head resting heavy against Namjoon’s neck, “I’m just always…I’m sorry, I always fuck up, I’m a—”

“Don’t,” Namjoon warns sharply, waiting for the cab to draw near enough so he can open the door and shove Yoongi inside, “don’t do this, hyung. Don’t talk down about yourself.”

Yoongi nods sadly, seemingly cowed.

They don’t speak again until Namjoon’s paying the taxi driver as they stand outside their dorm, Yoongi leaning heavily against him.

“Namjoon,” he mumbles, “my face is numb.”

Namjoon huffs. “That’s ‘cause you had too much to drink, dumbass.”

“Sorry,” Yoongi whispers, seeming so small in the harsh orange glow of the streetlight, “I just wanted to be happy.”

Namjoon sighs, sad. “I know, hyung. Let’s just…sleep, okay?”

They both know it’s useless trying to pretend that when they wake up, everything will be okay. Things are never better in the morning.




Yoongi tries not to see his life as one long line of suffering and numbness, tries to remind himself that there are times he’s felt good, times he’s laughed and smiled, but it’s hard.

Depression is like a cloak, he thinks, an unshakable cloak that might occasionally billow in the wind, giving him a brief reprieve from its crushing confines, before settling over him again.

“We’re changing your medication,” Seokjin states, frowning at Yoongi, who’s practically catatonic on the kitchen floor, mindlessly stirring the bowl of vegetables in his lap, “You shouldn’t be feeling miserable like this, Yoongi. There has to be a better dosage, or something, for you. I’m not just going to sit here and watch you struggle through your life like this. You deserve better.”

He turns back to the stove only to feel a slight pressure against his leg a minute later. Yoongi’s leaned over and is resting his head against Seokjin’s thigh. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly.

Seokjin reaches down and ruffles Yoongi’s hair, sighing.

“People care about you,” he says gently, “don’t forget that you matter to us. We want you to be happy.”

(Those totally aren’t tears in Yoongi’s eyes, nope.)

(Seokjin just has the damnedest way of making a guy feel things.)